


Humans and Their Difficulty with Words

by MykEsprit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, POV, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykEsprit/pseuds/MykEsprit
Summary: DUM-E was having a nice, long nap until he woke up with a witch on his arm.





	Humans and Their Difficulty with Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [articcat621](https://archiveofourown.org/users/articcat621/gifts).



> Written for Off the Beaten Path 2019, Hosted by Hermione's Haven. Thanks for hosting, ladies!
> 
> Written for articcat621! Thanks for the fab prompt!

I am not a chair. Father did not make me as a chair, although he does, at times, say that I am about as clever as one but only half as useful.

Father is funny like that. He is always going on about how stupid and worthless I am, and then, in the same breath, asks for my help in putting together his newest invention. It took me a long time to understand that humans do not use words to communicate; that they do not always say what they mean and sometimes they mean the complete opposite.

I wish, not for the first time, that Father had made me with the ability to speak, because, at this moment, I really need to say, “I am not a chair.”

I never thought that I would need to say such an obvious thing to Hermione Granger. But after waking up from sleep mode to find the witch sitting on my arm, it is something that I should have clarified long ago.

“DUM-E?” She blinks down at me. 

I turn on the lights in the laboratory. She hisses and throws a forearm over her eyes. I lower the intensity to 20%.

“Thank you.” She stares at the messy work tables and banks of computer screens lining the walls. “Bloody hell. How did I get in here?”

I would have told her it is probably because I did not delete her security clearance when Father told me to, which is why she is able to sit on my arm unharassed instead of being used as the laser drones’ target practice. But I cannot speak, and so I merely angle my pincers.

“Right,” she says under her breath. Her cheeks flame, and her eyes dart around, peering through the Holo wall at the darkened staircase. “I don’t suppose…”

Father is not here, I want to say. Well, currently, he is a hundred miles away and speeding home, ever since Hermione tripped the silent alarms. But, still, I have no words, and so I merely blink my sensor lights at her and glance at my fully-laden arm.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” She hops off—and immediately sways on her feet. I reach out to steady her, and she accepts my help gratefully. “Whoops.”

She gives me a watery smile, and between that and the air sensors indicating there are trace amounts of ethanol from her expiration, I conclude that she is, as Father would put it, ‘sloshed.’ Gently, I guide her to a stool by a workbench.

“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll just need a minute to get my bearings, and I’ll be on my way.” She takes a deep breath and arches her neck back, sighing heavily as she glares at the ceiling. “Bollocks. I didn’t mean to come here. I had meant to  _ Apparate _ home…” The corners of her lips turn down. “It’s like, when you’re driving to go home and your mind just wanders off, and next thing you know, you’re sitting in your driveway?”

I do not know, but I give her a sympathetic whir.

She smiles at me softly. “I know you don’t, but I guess that what happened. I had closed my eyes and meant to  _ Apparate _ to my new flat, but I turned and let my mind wander…” She waves an arm around the cavernous laboratory. “I didn’t mean to come here.” She tries to stand from the stool, but the high footing gives her trouble. “I should leave before he gets back.”

I shake my pincers at her, pushing her lightly back onto her seat. In a few seconds, I have retrieved a bottle of cool water for her to drink.

“Thank you.” She pats my arm. “I’ve missed you, DUM-E.”

I have missed her, as well. Out of Father’s companions—and there have been many over the years, according to the gossip from the speakers and kitchen appliances upstairs—Hermione Granger had been the best of them. Smart and clever and kind and almost always means what she says—

“Tell me.” Father’s cool voice enters the room before he steps out of the shadow. He is looking not at Hermione Granger but at me. I buckle down for the coming onslaught. “Where in the security protocol does it say to welcome intruders with refreshments? Are the hors d’oeuvres on their way, or have I missed them? I always miss the hors d’oeuvres.”

Hermione plants her feet on the ground, and, this time, she stands steadily. “You know it’s not his fault.”

Father saunters around the perimeter of the lab, his Iron Man suit slowly dissembling off him, the nanobots hiding neatly in their compartments. He stops five inches away from me, glaring down until I am nearly folded to the floor. “It’s always his fault.” Just as quickly, he straightens and turns his wintry gaze on the witch. I back away millimeter by millimeter, trying not to attract his attention.

“I’m the one who  _ Apparated _ here,” Hermione says. “By mistake. So it’s not his fault.”

“If he had changed security protocols like I had asked him to—” His gaze slices back to me, and I freeze in place. “You wouldn’t have been able to come in here.”

Hermione snorts. “And I likely would have been splattered against your shield like a bug. It’s a good thing he didn’t change them.”

Father’s right shoulder twitches. I know the very idea of harm coming to Hermione makes him itch, like a spider trapped in his Iron Man suit. He glances back at me again, and this time, I see a touch of gratitude in his eyes.

“Well.” He clears his throat and squares his shoulders as he faces Hermione. “I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than visit with old friends, so you’d best be off.” He shoos her away with a flick of his wrist.

Hermione’s expression turns to stone, but she nods stiffly. “Of course,” she says harshly. “I don’t want to be here, anyway.” 

Father stuffs his hand in his pockets and shrugs lightly. “Finally. We’re on the same page.”

She places her hand on the workbench beside her and takes out her wand with the other. She turns her back on Father.

As she raises her wand, I see a flicker of longing and sadness on Father’s expression.

Aside from a mouth to speak, there are times when I wish Father had made me with eyes, as well. Not for sight—no, I can see quite well with my built-in cameras. I wish I had them so that I may roll my eyes, just like how Father rolls his whenever I do something that vaguely annoys him.

And, I admit that while I am a lenient robot, my patience has been growing thin when it comes to humans and their difficulty with words. They do not say what they mean, and they mean the opposite of what they say, and it’s all just very confusing to my software.

Hermione says she does not want to be here, but her tense shoulders and shaking wand hand indicate that she does not want to leave.

Father says he doesn’t want her to stay, yet he locks his knees to keep from running to her and buries his hands in his pockets to prevent them from reaching out for her.

And here  _ I _ am, standing just behind Father, waiting for them both to make yet another mistake.

_ I _ do not have words. 

What I do have is an arm, which I use—to my detriment, perhaps—to knock Father over and into his witch.

“ _ Oomph! _ ”

Their arms lock around each other as they tumble to the ground. Father twists so that he lands on the floor, cushioning Hermione’s fall.

“Fucking—“

“For Merlin’s sake—“

As the shock wears off their faces, they notice the space between them—or, more accurately, the lack of. Hermione’s face turns a bright red, and she squirms slightly in his arms.

A gentle smile melts onto Father’s expression. “Why, Miss Granger, I do believe you’re a bit drunk.”

Her cheeks darken. “That obvious?”

“That—“ He leans up and takes a sharp whiff. “Or you’ve made a sudden career change into the lucrative field of eighteenth-century piracy.”

She nods solemnly. “I may have had too much rum.”

Father chuckles softly. He reaches up to tuck a curl behind her right ear and then drops his hand quickly. “Never knew you to be such a lush.”

“You know I’m not.” Hermione traces the curve of her ear as though she can still feel his lingering touch. “The girls and I are on summer holiday. They booked us a bungalow on this posh, private island. There’s nothing to do there but sunbathe and drink rum cocktails.”

“You must have been going out of your mind from boredom.”

“It was the  _ worst _ .” She laughs into her hand. “That’s why I tried to sneak out while they were taking their post-pre-dinner-drink-sesh nap.”

“And whose bright idea was it to go there? Ginny or Luna?”

Hermione bites her lip. “Nat, actually.” 

He winces. “Ouch. I thought I got her in the divorce.”

Hermione gives his shoulder a playful slap. “We were never married. Prat.”

The ease in Father’s expression dissolves. He clears his throat and averts his eyes from his witch. 

Wordlessly, they disentangle from each other. Father gets to his feet and helps Hermione to hers. He snatches his hands from her arms as soon as she stops swaying and jams them back in his pockets.

“Well.” Hermione’s eyes train on Father but are void of emotion. She nods deeply. Turning around, she raises her wand again.

Father stands by, staring at her form silently.

I give his calf a nudge—I do not want to be scrap metal, after all, and I do not think he will forgive me if I knocked him off his feet  _ twice _ .

He glances down at me, looking very much unlike Father—lost and uncertain and a little bit afraid.

I point my pincers toward the witch expectantly and blink twice.

As she twirls the tip of her wand, Father finds his voice. “That was probably it.”

Hermione faces him, confused.

“What you just said. That was probably why we—” He gestures between them.

She squints her eyes, recalling what she had said. “That we were never married? Or that you’re a prat?”

He takes a hesitant step towards her. “Bit of both.” When she does not move at his approach, he closes the distance between them. With fingertips slightly quivering, he traces her cheekbone. “I just...I shouldn’t have—“

Hermione’s eyes close at his touch. “Tony,” she breathes. Her eyes blink open, and I see that they are full.

Full of the words that her human lips have not said.

_ He _ can read them, however, and he responds by leaning down and capturing those lips. 

His arms entwine her waist. 

Her arms fold over his shoulders, and her legs follow their example, jumping up and wrapping around his hips.

Another minute, and Father is stumbling to the staircase, arms full of his witch.

I hope, for the sake of my audio sensors, that they make it upstairs before anything happens—because whatever will go on between them, I am certain it will not involve  _ words _ .

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/Kudos are appreciated!
> 
> Prompt: After a night out with the girls, Hermione thinks it's a good idea to Apparate home. Apparating drunk, however, is never a good idea. Cue Hermione landing in the arms of someone unexpected.


End file.
